Games and Their Solutions
by sierrac
Summary: "I assume this is a plea to stay my hand from punishment…" Richard told Mary at the end of the Christmas Special. Hmmm... Happily married, Mary crashes Richard's car, and those words take on new meaning. An attempt at kinky smut.
1. I

**AN1:** So here's the problem – I just happened to watch the movie _Secretary,_ directly after rewatching the Christmas Special. Thanks, Netflix. As a result, this pretty much wrote itself.

**AN2:** I am peeking my head out from vacation to post this, and then quickly retreating back into my rabbit hole for cover in case this leads to any massive controversy. Please keep in mind that this is _just for fun – _as always, I have the utmost respect for Mary as a strong and independent woman, and I truly believe Richard does too, which is why they can get away with playing these sorts of games. I hope. (Please don't let Gloria Steinem kill me.)

* * *

**I.**

Richard's study was a far cozier affair than his office at work, Mary found herself thinking as she glanced around the room. While his office at the newspaper was imposing, traditional, grand, this room was warm and comfortable, modern and clean. There were numerous hues of warm browns and rich earth tones, and she felt enveloped in the embrace of plush carpet and glossy wood. The room was on an impressive scale, but somehow, it felt like just another room in their home; the perfect size for two occupants, albeit two occupants accustomed to extreme luxury.

"I don't see it!" she called out over her shoulder as her fingers ran over folder tabs in one of the open drawers. Bookshelves of striped walnut stretched in horizontal lines on either wall; below, cabinets of files were carefully hidden to look like paneling.

"Well I don't know where she put it," Richard replied, not looking up from his papers. "Are you looking under 'G'?"

"'G' for 'gardeners,' or for 'gee, the housekeeper does not put things back where they belong?'" she asked.

"'G' for 'grossly overpaid, given the quality of their work.'"

Mary sighed as she dropped into a curved chair of orange velvet across from the desk, pouring herself a cup of tea from the deco silver service. The angles and smooth surfaces of the tea set captured her imagination – ever since she moved into their modernist penthouse, she found her taste gravitating increasingly toward the clean lines and opulent textures of the avant-garde, which Richard obviously appreciated too. Unadorned by frivolous carving or unnecessary gilt, his desk here was the perfect example: a streamlined, square block of burl, its simplicity all the better to show off the tremendous richness of the material.

"I think we're paying the salary of four people and getting the work of two," she said, "though I can only confirm this when the timesheets materialize."

"I'll have them tracked down on Monday," he replied easily, raising an eyebrow in her direction to confirm the acceptability of this timeline.

"Fine," she conceded, "my to-do list can wait. That is if yours can," she indicated the pile of documents in front of him. "It _is_ Saturday."

Richard unceremoniously pushed the papers aside with a sweep of his arm and looked up at her with a dazzling grin.

In response, Mary put her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on her hands, watching him. "Better."

"And what have you planned for us today, Lady Mary?"

"Well, Sir Richard," she began, "I thought we might give away our opera tickets tonight, cancel dinner, and stay in all evening."

He reached to refill his teacup. "But if I'm not allowed to work, how _will_ we fill the time?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something."

She loved these afternoon chats over tea in his study, she had decided. He spent more time in this room than any other, except their bedroom of course, and it was convenient because she always knew where to find him on weekends. And on slow news days during the week, he would work from home, so if she happened to be home herself, she would drop in without an appointment and distract him endlessly.

"What opera will we miss tonight?" he asked pleasantly.

"Götterdämmerung, all six hours of it."

"Here, here," he said, raising his cup in a toast, "We somehow managed to escape the first three installments of Wagner's masterpiece; no need to see part four."

She spent quite a lot of time here, Mary realized. Running their lives was a full-time job, and she would often take over the study herself, sitting at the enormous desk as she managed household and business matters with a new appreciation for the many responsibilities her mother handled with such grace. And if Richard was home; well, he was rather adept at distracting her too - the deep brown leather chesterfield sofa against one wall factored into the reason why they missed the first three Wagner operas.

"If you weren't an opera trustee, I would suggest we cancel our box," he said, taking a biscuit from the tray. "We've yet to make it to a single performance."

"And whose fault is that?" she asked, brushing her foot along his ankle from under the desk. "You hide out in here with your typewriter and your phone calls anytime the word 'opera' is mentioned."

"You can blame my work habits should any of your friends inquire, but we both know this room isn't confined merely to… labor."

"Only exertion." She replied, and at this he actually laughed out loud. She laughed herself; what had this man done to her sense of propriety? They contemplated each other for a moment, amused.

"Perhaps we should go for a drive," he suggested, and she swallowed her tea in a large gulp. Her foot, which was hooked under his pant leg and working its way up, suddenly stilled, though she quickly recovered herself and hoped he did not notice her reaction.

"What a good idea," she said, "although the roads are crowded on the weekend. And the setting seems a bit… _public_, don't you think?"

"Perhaps you're right," he agreed. "Yet I find myself feeling rather careless today, wanting to drive far too fast down some country lane."

"You could be careless at home," she suggested. "You could break a glass, get a paper cut. Why, you even could sign one of those documents with the incorrect date," she said in mock horror.

Richard chuckled. "Yes that does sound more fun than fighting the weekend traffic," he said, seeming to let go of the idea, to Mary's great relief. "And who are the lucky recipients of our tickets?" he asked, changing the topic.

"I offered them to that young reporter and his wife – they're always so thrilled to get them. And we have a reservation at The Jockey Club after; I suppose we won't make that either."

"I'll go to The Jockey Club when the jockeys learn to make a decent martini."

"You can make your own tonight." Standing up, Mary indicated the paperwork his eyes kept occasionally travelling to, as if he could not let the pile sit there unattended for too long. "Go ahead!" she said in exasperation. "You finish your work and I'll tell Parker to ring the restaurant and give up our table. Meet you in the drawing room in an hour for cocktails?"

"I'll put it on the schedule," he said with a smile. He reached for his pen to resume his work as she crossed the room to leave, enjoying the feel of deep carpet on her bare feet and thinking how much she was going to relish a night in after a busy week of events and endless socializing. Their London lives were so demanding, and it was nice to take some time off occasionally from the hustle and bustle and hide out in their penthouse above the fray.

"Oh, Mary," Richard called after her casually, almost as an afterthought, when she reached the door to the hall. "What happened to the Isotta?"

She froze, her back still to him and her fingers just touching the handle. "The Isotta?" she echoed.

"Mm," he assented. "The front end is all smashed up. And I received a fantastic bill from a towing company for practically more than the car is worth."

She stared at the swirling grain of the lacquered walnut door for several beats. Damn that towing company, she thought, and after she told them specifically to address the bill to _her_. After a moment, she abruptly turned to face him. "I crashed it into a post three days ago," she stated plainly. "I didn't tell you because I thought you would be angry."

She managed to keep her eyes steady on his, overriding her first instinct to look away, at the ceiling, at the floor, anything to avoid the cool, appraising gaze fixated on her.

"You were right."


	2. II

**II.**

Mary actually fancied herself quite a good driver. Although she had first learned to drive in America, and she was still getting used to driving on the opposite side of the road. But despite the fact that they had been in London most of the time since their return and she had few opportunities to practice, she was so certain she had gotten the hang of it that she dispensed with the chauffer for the afternoon to drive out to see some friends in the outskirts of the city on her own. Everything had been going perfectly well, until she found herself leaving the driveway.

"I thought the gear was in reverse," she clarified, "but it wasn't."

"I don't mind if you wreck your own car," Richard began, and she recognized his precise tone from when one of his reporters let a competitor beat him to a scoop, "but must you destroy mine?"

His stare went right through her and she lifted her chin in defiance – he may be her husband, but she did not have to explain herself to him. "The mechanic is coming Monday; he's giving me an estimate on fixing it," she said, mindful to keep her tone light. It was only a car, after all.

Richard did not drop his gaze. "There are three, and only three, loves of my life," he told her carefully. "In order: You. My first newspaper. And the Isotta." His raised eyebrows emphasized this point. "When two of those items are involved in a crash, and I don't hear about it for three days, I get upset."

"I don't know whether to be offended that you refer to me as an 'item,'" Mary replied breezily, "or flattered that I top the list."

He did not respond to her, nor did his expression change from the one his business associates likely found quite terrifying. How absurd, Mary thought to herself, she certainly was not going to be intimidated.

"Come here," he said.

She found herself frozen to the floor as if the lush carpet were flytrap paper.

His eyes brightened slightly at her hesitation, in a way she found most disconcerting. "You don't want me to ask twice."

He always did have a peculiar definition of 'asking.' Reluctantly, she put one foot in front of the other, approaching him as cautiously as she wished she had been driving that day.

Richard leaned back in his chair, watching her as she rounded the desk; how was it that he managed to make her feel like prey even when she was the one coming to him? He reached out as she got closer, his large hands encircling her waist and drawing her to him. "I'm glad you're alright," he said as he boldly kissed the top of her breasts peeking over the neckline of her blouse. She raked her hands through his hair and held him close, irrationally relieved that this was his intention. What else could it have been, Mary wondered dismissively.

"So much for the martini," she sighed as he kissed up to her collarbone and she moved her hands down to massage his shoulders, pleased he had divested himself of his jacket earlier on this warm spring day. Richard held her tight as one hand found the buttons running down the back of her skirt, and he started to undo them one by one with great care as she ran her fingers lightly over his arm. When he finished, he pushed the skirt down off her hips and she let it fall to the floor in a smooth sweep of silk, sinking into his grip and wishing she could feel his lips on hers that very second.

Abruptly, the hand that had come to rest on her hip gave her a push, spinning her around, and she found herself bent over the desk, Richard's palm on the small of her back keeping her in place as he now stood over her. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed, her eyes widening at this unexpected move.

He did not answer her, merely leaned over, brushing her hair aside, and kissed the back of her neck. As he danced his fingers slowly down her spine, Mary relaxed, crossing her arms in front of her to pillow her head contentedly as she savored his ministrations. If this was what he had in mind for the evening, she did not mind – she quite liked when they made love in this position; it was so animalistic, something she never would have considered a positive adjective before she met Richard.

Moving lower, he traced a single finger very deliberately from below her knee, up the back of her thigh, to the edge of her lace underwear, tugging them down. Mary bit her lip in anticipation, fully expecting that finger to explore other places, in a way Richard was so skilled at. Instead, she was awakened from the reverie she was pleasantly slipping into as he touched her by a sudden, stinging slap to her backside delivered with such force that it echoed throughout the room.

She gasped, trying to push herself up, but to no avail as his other hand continued to press her down against the desk.

"Excuse me," she protested indignantly, "I believe you are greatly mistaken as to what I will and will not abide." She was employing her highest and mightiest aristocratic tone, the only pitch she possessed that was a match for his formidable business voice. If he thought he could get away with such behavior, Mary thought disdainfully, he was quite wrong.

"I don't believe you have a choice in the matter," Richard replied as he stuck her again.

Somehow, in her surprise, she managed to think twice about her next reaction, and she held back the huff that sprung so readily to her lips – clearly aristocratic indignity was not going to help her in this situation, and she was not about to give him the satisfaction of trying the same futile plea twice.

In truth, she was not all that stunned that things has progressed – or was that degenerated? – to this point. Both rather competitive people by nature, she and Richard seemed to be locked in some contest to out-shock the other, one that was intensifying to rather comic extremes.

Mary was fairly sure she had started it, recalling the night she sent the servants away and greeted him at the door utterly naked, save for his customary after-work martini in her hand and the diamond barrette he gave her for Christmas in her hair. But Richard would probably claim it originated with him the next night, when he repurposed his favorite tie into a blindfold to give her a new perspective, or lack thereof, on just how neglected her other senses had been.

He undoubtedly escalated things, calling her in the middle of the afternoon to read excerpts of erotic poems from his secret bookshelf, his deep voice echoing through the telephone and her mind for the rest of the day, making it impossible to get anything done. And she retaliated by whispering the detailed fantasies his phone call had sparked into his ear at a party the evening after, delighting in his struggle to resume normal cocktail conversation after she drifted away in a cloud of perfume.

Not that they needed such games to keep each other entertained – no, Mary believed their physical fascination would not fade. But the intellectual challenge such adventures posed was irresistible: each wanted to get the better of the other, and the best part was that victory for either was satisfying for both.

Though she questioned that rule of their sport now, crying out as he smacked her once more. Richard was definitely not holding back in deference to her delicate skin, and the blow stung with the immediacy of a flash of lightening, before fading into a tingle Mary was loathe to admit was not altogether unpleasant. However, she could easily envision that tingle being subjugated to mere discomfort if this went on much longer, and she decided she would rather not let things get to that point.

His next slap confirmed this theory, and Mary knitted her eyebrows together as she considered her options in response. So, righteous pique was not effective. Perhaps reason, then? "The car can be fixed," she said over her shoulder, "you'll never even know there was a problem."

"If that's your attempt at an apology…" he trailed off, this time bringing his hand down twice in quick succession in the same spot; she had to stifle a yelp as this quite smarted.

She contemplated what would happen if she somehow forced a few tears and implored him to stop, but she discarded the idea immediately: Lady Mary Carlisle did not cry, and she certainly never begged. Knowing her as well as he did, Richard probably would not believe her act anyway.

But that did not mean she couldn't play on his sympathy. At his next blow she gave an exaggerated wail of agony; he only chuckled at her dramatics.

Oh right, she remembered with a roll of her eyes, he _had_ no sympathy.

She was starting to take comfort in the idea that his hand was likely burning as much as her bottom, though what was truly vexing was not the sting, but her inability to gain advantage. Mary actually had no quarrel that Richard often took control in their lovemaking; in fact, it rather thrilled her, if only because it was so much fun to resist him. But in those rare instances that her resistance was this ineffective, their relationship was like an unfinished crossword puzzle – unbalanced, just waiting for the perfect solution to restore symmetry.

Time to try guilt, she decided. "You do realize this is the antithesis of bold and modern women's liberation, yes?"

Richard seemed to pause to consider her question, and she thought that perhaps she had gotten the upper hand. If there was one side she could always appeal to, it was his progressive politics.

"I can live with that," he said as she felt another smack. Like sympathy, he did clearly not possess guilt in any great abundance.

This was not working, all her failed efforts belying the fact that they were actually quite evenly matched. And like Richard, Mary did not like to lose. Changing tactics once again, she chose to go the decidedly un-feminist route and play the seductress. "I can think of far better ways to make it up to you than this," she said breathily, licking her lips in a most obvious way in hopes of diverting his attention.

"No," Richard said, amused, "you really can't," this time giving her a light slap followed by a knowing caress.

Dammit, the bastard was _enjoying_ it. Far too much, Mary contemplated in frustration.

Then, like a light bulb suddenly switched on, she had it. She knew exactly the one thing she could say that would make him abandon this current project and spend the rest of the evening making vigorous love to her instead. The strategy did run the risk of one final smack, of course, but, weighing the odds, she concluded it was a small price to pay if Richard was certain to fall victim to her other charms. It was the only solution, she told herself, the perfect combination of the seductress and the daring aristocrat that he could never resist. She felt the corner of her mouth turning up in a smirk; he was so easy she almost felt sorry for him.

The comment jumped on her tongue, the one response she knew would utterly overwhelm him, and Mary made sure her voice was steady and clear.

"Hit me again."

She was right.


	3. III

**III.**

There was a long pause, and neither of them moved. Mary realized she had been holding her breath waiting for a reaction, though none was immediately forthcoming – perhaps she was wrong, and those were not the words Richard secretly wanted to hear. She had been so sure that he had wanted to elicit her audacious side, the side he found irresistible and as a consequence she knew assured her power in their particular dynamic.

But this hesitation was unforeseen – she had expected him to reward her boldness by succumbing to his desire for her, egged on by her impudent words.

"What did you say?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Never one to abandon a plan mid-execution, she answered with assurance. "I said hit me again, you bastard."

His hand on her back prevented her from turning fully to see his expression, but she heard him inhale a ragged breath. She pursed her lips to stifle a smile – how silly she had been to question her own judgment.

Or maybe how silly she had been to even attempt this little coup, she amended as his hand connected with the back of her thighs in a stinging blow twice as bad as any of the others. No dramatics this time; she could not suppress a very real shriek, and she imagined the evidence of it would be with her for a few days at least. What had she instigated? Mary was starting to wonder, when she felt Richard's hand leave the small of the back and heard the sound of him undoing his belt and trousers.

She was free to move now, free to turn around and help him undress or to take off her blouse or undo her hair, but after that last slap she was not inclined to help him do anything. She stayed put, content to leave him to his own devices and wait for him to satisfy the need that had been growing in her since his earlier caresses. If he wanted to be in control, she thought with a silent laugh, then he could very well do all the work.

She only had to wait a few moments before he gripped her hips and buried himself inside her. This time her cry was a moan of pleasure, and she hoped he did not take special notice of just how dripping wet she was for him from their previous activity. Mary tried to dismiss the thought herself, imaging it was their competition and not her own helplessness that she had found so heady. If she had examined it a little closer, she probably would have admitted it was really a combination of the two, but she was unable to examine much of anything as he set a hasty pace that brought her quickly to the edge of desire.

He continued the same unrelenting rhythm as she flew apart, the immediacy of it catching her by surprise, and she heard Richard groan her name as her walls fluttered around him in her first peak. She quivered and keened as he drove into her, her left hand grasping the edge of the desk for a touch of reality. But it did not help very much, and soon enough she felt the same feeling building again, the first having come and gone so quickly that she was rapidly ready for the next.

His breathing grew faster along with his thrusts as he reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers as his other arm wound underneath her hips to keep her from colliding too forcefully with the sharp edge of the desk. Mary pushed back against him, meeting his every move with her own until they both fell apart together, engulfed in the explosion.

* * *

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," Richard murmured as he kissed the top of her head. After they had both recovered he had lured her to the leather chesterfield sofa with the prospect of a strong martini, and she had managed to pull her underwear and skirt on without too much protest from her aching bottom as he made the promised drinks with aplomb. They lounged on the low sofa, watching the light reflected on the wood paneling and back through the window turn a bright orange as the sun set over Westminster, and Mary resolved that she would need both another martini and a couple of aspirin by the time the night was over.

"Just waiting for the perfect excuse?" Mary asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Ever since your attempt to throw me over at Christmas," he continued his train of thought, "remember?"

"You can't blame a girl for trying," she joked. All had worked out well for them, in the end, as it turned out Richard was harder to get out of her heart than she had imagined. And their reconciliation had been such a delicious affair that she had hoped all was forgotten, or at least that the sting of their particularly unpleasant parting had faded away.

Then she had a flash of memory back to the morning he had left Downton after their fight. "'I assume this is a plea to stay my hand from punishment…'" she quoted aloud, suddenly remembering their exchange so clearly. Remembering the unseemly shiver those words had sent down her spine.

Mary had always been attracted to power – if only because she liked to think she exuded a power of her own that so few people were equal to – and at the time, those brash words had spoken to her that Richard Carlisle was a man who would not be cowed, even in defeat. Now she realized a whole new level to what he said, a more literal meaning that explained the glint she had noticed in his eye and the slight smirk on his lips as he delivered the insolent comment.

Richard kissed her hair again in concurrence. "Do you know how long a drive it is from Downton to London, in the winter, with ice on the bridges and snow blocking the roads?" he asked. "What a miserable trip that was, thinking I would never see you again?" Mary tilted her head up to place a kiss to his jaw before returning to rest her cheek on his shoulder – she had not thought about it before. They never discussed it, and after they made up at Haxby so soon after, she had tried not to think back to that day of their goodbye. "Or how furious I was with you?"

"That, I can imagine," she said, taking issue with his last statement, "because I was equally furious with you."

"Understandably so," he acknowledged. They were well past that particular conflict, sharing the blame for the precipitous condition their relationship had been in at that moment in time. "That didn't stop me from spending most of the drive home picturing you over my knee, kicking and screaming as I meted out a punishment you wouldn't forget."

And there was that unseemly shiver again. "As if I would kick or scream," she said indignantly, nevertheless taking a steadying sip of the martini to quell her involuntarily strong response to the image.

Richard chuckled at this remark, stroking her hair as he replied, "My darling, you have no idea what I'm capable of."

It may have sounded like a threat, but she knew in their marriage that a threat from either of them was just a challenge waiting to be met.

"And you have no idea what _I'm_ capable of," Mary countered, already dreaming up her next move in their erotic rivalry, certain she could outdo him even in this shocking turn of events.

"I look forward to finding out," he said assuredly, daring her to try.

They were both right.

* * *

The End.


End file.
